Welcome Home
by Falcon Green
Summary: James Norrington, post-AWE, launched into modern day Blackwater Falls, Ohio. NorringtonOC, his caretaker becomes his love as he faces life in the real world. Funny in the tradition of SpacePotato.
1. Holy Mackerel!

Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean and all of its foxy wonders are in the very capable hands of Disney, although if I had the cash and rugged good looks, I could very well consider acting for Pirates 4….:D

Welcome Home:

Chapter One: Holy Mackerel!

A lone, bedraggled figure on the other side of the field motioned to me. Practice had been dismissed; there was no one there but me. It was late—not in the season but in the night, and the rain coursed down in torrents. Marching band took prisoners, and how it relished its steady early-season summer torture. I hung my trumpet to my side and ambled slowly toward the…person? Yes. Man. Unaware of much going on, I welcomed the feeling of his jacket over my shoulders, even though it did induce a bit of guilt—I could feel that the man was colder than I was. Normally, I don't often do these sorts of things, but call it a nudge, a nudge from the Mary Sue Goddess, this guy needed my help.

No man is an island, but I'm definitely a peninsula. I'm an orphan living with my sister who's always at work or at class. It seems, this fellow's isthmus was shakier even than mine…

"Come with me," I said groggily, looking up to a face I couldn't quite see. I took him to my sister's car, a silver and primer-black Pontiac. He mumbled something about horses or a lack thereof as I tucked him into the car and buckled his seatbelt. The homeless shelter would know what to do. My trumpet went into its gig bag in the back seat. I climbed into the driver's seat. By the domelight, I learned why his coat was so brocadey, why his voice was so familiar, and why he had been concerned by a lack of horses in front of the Pontiac. I turned on the ignition and tucked a lock of soggy, brown hair out of the owner's green, slightly drunken eyes. He didn't object.

"A very strange turn of events, Admiral?" I asked.

"I'd often heard of valkyries taking people who had died in combat to Valhalla, but you are, no offense, no valkyrie, and this is no part of the afterlife I've ever heard of."

Checking my recollection of The Kalevala, (good read, lot of Nordic mythology.) I replied. "You're still in Midgard, about 300-plus years in the future, and about a thousand miles north of your home. The colonies you knew so well, nigh on all of them, are their own countries, and you, my friend, are as far from any sort of Navy establishment as ever you could be."

Admiral James Norrington looked perplexed, then relieved. "No pirates, then?"

"We get the odd report, but largely no. No pirates."

"Where are we going?"

"My house. I'm not just going to leave a disoriented English gentleman at a homeless shelter in Blackwater Hills, Ohio."

"Well, then, I believe thanks are in order, Miss…."

"Riordan. Carmen Riordan. But to you, Carmen. We're here." I stopped the car in the carport and got out. The Admiral still struggled in his seat. I opened the door to find him wrestling with the seatbelt.

"Miss Riordan, untie me this instant!" he shouted. I pressed the release button and he tumbled into a pile of confused cuteness on the ground.

The house was dark when we entered, save for a table lamp. Pam (Short for Pamina. Opera fans. Oy vey.) was at literature classes, then working all night. Can't complain. It pays the rent—for a house she's never in, but I digress. I threw the switch to cast light on a cramped, yet clean living room-kitchen-dining room. The Admiral gazed around, astonished.

"Yes, sir, the rooms light without candles. No, I don't really know how it works. Make yourself at home whilst I get something warm for us to drink and some dry clothes." After finding some miscellaneous flannelry for myself, I braced for the difficult task of finding clothing suitable for a tall and manly admiral in a home with no men. It was a good deal that Pamina is a good deal taller and…broader…than me—her Dropkick Murphies shirt and pair of sweats looked like they would do just fine. I tossed the clothes at him as I emerged from the short hall.

"The bathroom's at the end of the hall. I know the clothes are strange, but right now, normalcy isn't so much of an option," I said brusquely.

"Thank you, Carmen. I suppose, then, you can call me James, since we're foregoing convention this evening." James slogged off to change, and I heated up some tea.

"I guess you've got a lot of questions for me," I stated, handing him a mug of Earl Grey.

James gave me a daunted deer-in-headlights stare. "I do indeed. Firstly, how did

I get here?"

"I assume you know I have no idea, but a wild stab in the dark would be a multidimensional randomizer surrounding the Dutchman, that reacted strangely to your falling in the water. Whatever. I don't know."

"Second, how do you know so much about me?"

"That, I can answer," I replied, rummaging in a cabinet for an oft-used DVD—Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl. Smiling, I popped it into the player and skipped to the start of the story, where everyone looked so young. His jaw dropped. "I guess you can remember all that. Are you done, or do you want to see more?"

"I think I want to see more. How do they do that? Make the pictures light up and move?"

"Haven't the foggiest—but it did make you quite famous. Even after you lost your commission, people loved you. The loss of your powdered wig elicited gasps and shy girlish smiles from the ladies around here." I rolled my eyes. "Mind if I join you on the couch?"

"No problem at all, Carmen," he replied. I brought over a bag of chips and sat on the couch, where James had scooted over to make room.

He tensed a bit when Elizabeth came on screen. It was then that I remembered that she broke his heart.

"It's not your fault, James. She did you wrong. I wouldn't even do what she did."

Luckily, the scene changed to Jack's grand entrance and he was able to relax. I took his empty tea mug to the sink and returned to the living room, where he looked wistfully at the screen with his bag of chips. There I waited, just looking at him. No wonder he had his own fangirls and MarySues. (I am NOT!) Modern clothes suited him, if a little too short and tight. Below his angular face and well-tied ponytail, his broad shoulders and chiseled arms poked boldly through his tee-shirt. _Damn_, I thought_. I am so lucky_. After a long time, I returned to my spot on the couch. He didn't seem to mind when I snaked my hand into his contemplatively arranged fingers.

"Foregoing convention again, Carmen?" He murmured.

"Should I not?" I asked.

"No…I rather enjoy it. It just startled me a bit."

"Even in a different reality, you seem startled by very little, James. How are you managing it?"

"The technology's a little difficult to grasp, but it's not as if there's undead pirates out for my life. I enjoy challenges like this."

"Good," I mumbled. He had a certain quality that made me want to mumble. Maybe it was the eyes, or perhaps his sly little smiles, but they left me bereft of boldness.

He wasn't really watching the movie anymore. When he looked at the screen, his eyes were glazed over and he'd be watching me from the corner of his eye. I suppose for good reason; the movie was nearing its end, nearing disaster for James. I snapped the TV off with the remote that he didn't know about.

"That's all for tonight, James. It's getting late. We should both get some shuteye," I stated. My thumb sort of caressed his hand. It was sort of knobbly, like a pianist's hand. It was the one he used to hold his sword. "You can stay on this couch, and I'll get a pillow and blanket for you. I'm sure Pam won't mind." And with that I rushed off to find said comforts. My room was full of them. I settled on a black and silver afghan, and, passing over my velour Jack Sparrow pillow, I grabbed a green pillow with clover patterns on it. They would do. When I got to the sofa, he was already lying down. I reminded myself to take a trip out to the store and get some more clothes for him. He smiled when I tucked the pillow behind his head and deftly pulled his ponytail out of its ribbon.

"Sleeping with a ponytail in causes headaches," I explained, brushing his hair out of his eyes. I let the blanket fall on top of him in one flying toss, the way Pam did when I was sick last winter. Thinking my job was done, I tidied the living room and toddled sleepily to bed.


	2. Nightmare

Chapter 2: Nightmare

(I would like to thank the Decemberists for lending me their sweet lyrics, from "Of Angels and Angles," and also, for making my life enjoyable in general.)

I didn't wake up to an alarm. Usual. I'm an incurable slugabed sometimes, especially on three-day weekends like this one. What distinguished this awakening from others was that it was _before_ my alarm. What had stirred me? In a fit of sleeplessness inspired rage, I vowed to maim whatever had disturbed me. _THUMP!_ Then a sound like a cat yowling from carsickness, taken down two octaves. _What the hell_, I thought. It came from the living room. Of course it did. The only other living being in the house—it shocked me to think of him as a living being, seeing as a day ago he was only a very foxy figment of the imagination—was in the living room, underneath one of my favorite afghans. Might as well go check on him.

It was, in fact, the brave and mighty Admiral Norrington squalling and squirming on the couch. On his face was a face of rage and terror…what was he mumbling? Turn? Tunstall? Torn up? Turner! Of course. Either Will or Bill, the former, a eunuch who stole his girl, or the latter, the guy who killed him and chucked him overboard. I woke him up with a very awkward poke in the shoulder, and then a shake.

"James, wake up, dammit. You're having a nightmare!" He sort of imploded into wakefulness, flinging his blanket aside and sitting bolt upright. I sat on the edge of the couch, unsure of what to do. For someone who's bound for nursing school, I have all the compassion and none of the skills. I took a hold of him by his shoulders and then he leaned in, not quite possessed of his senses.

"There, there, Carmie's got you…" I mumbled into his ear, and he sort of grunted. I shushed him. "It's all going to be okay." This I doubted slightly, having never taken care of a dimensional refugee before. I stroked his back, like a young child sick with a tummy-bug. Warm tears leaked onto me that I hadn't noticed before. Instinct took over, and I began to hum softly a tune I had heard on the radio. His sobs subsided. My voice, raspy and deep, even like a man's, broke forth to sing the song to him. "There are angels in your angles, there's a low moon caught in your tangles." I pulled his matted hair out of his face. "There's a ticking at the sill. There's a purr of a pigeon to break the still of day." Folks don't fancy me a good singer, I admit it. On band bus sing-alongs, I usually get looks of disgust and shouts of "put a trumpet up to your face, I'm sick of your voice!" This may not have even been one of my better performances. All the same, it comforted me and I felt him smile weakly on my shoulder. I continued. "As on we go drowning, down we go away. And darling, we go a-drowning, down we go, away. There's a tough word on your crossword, there's a bedbug nipping a finger. There's a swallow, there's a calm, here's a hand to lay on your open palm today."

By now, he was snoozing, heavy, on my shoulder. I laid him down to rest on the couch, and his eyes flickered lazily open. He smiled a little again, saying softly, "You're not so much the singer, are you?"

"Jerk," I muttered. Then I chuckled, "Some call it an acquired taste. Get used to it, darlin'. I like my voice." I pushed him on the shoulder. "Get some rest, you goose. Sweeter dreams, James."

Early morning jaunts are not, as I've mentioned, my strong suit. Believe me, I can function on little sleep, but getting up early, as opposed to staying up late, puts me in a foul temper. Anyhow, it became clear that I'd have to mind him the rest of the night. Pam wouldn't be much help; she had yet another round of classes and a thespian meeting afterwards. I went to the bathroom to splash my face. The mirror revealed an ugly sight to most of the world, but I was used to it. I studied my round face for blemishes—well, new ones, anyway. My hair was a mess, but not much of one. It's hard to make a mess of short, thin hair. I had it slashed into a pixie cut to eliminate time issues with curling, dryin, etc. My skin is a sort of goldish pallor, and my hair sort of matches, with bits of red thrown in. My eyes, sunken, and weary-looking, are a strange shade of brown-grey. I imagine my parents were embarrassed by the chance pairing of foul-fortuned alleles. I only find favor with my long legs. The rest of my body is curved enough to allude to the fact that I'm not really a boy, but not so much as to advertise that fact. They always call Pamina the pretty one. They can piss off. I pull a sweatshirt over my pajamas and set about the day's work—first would be a string of math problems to be reviewed on Tuesday when I returned to school. With a mug of milk, I plopped on the living room floor and set to work. Hours passed, as they do when I do homework, and a ray of sun, the shade usually associated with peach yogurt, slunk across the pages and across James's face. It seemed a bit more peaceful now. I should have expected his eyes to open then, but I didn't see that, so I went back to work. _Better to let him rest,_ I thought.

I furrowed my brow at a succession of quadratics that would make a seasoned mathematician's hair curl. Big Bertha, my calculator, offered no suggestions. _Damn you, Big Bertha_, I swore mentally.

"What are you working on?" James asked groggily.

"Math. Higher algebra." These words came out like curses.

"Sounds awful."

"You have no idea. Let's get breakfast. I think I'm done here."


	3. When We Go Shopping

Chapter 3: Everything Will Be All Right When We Go Shopping

A/N: Sorry to my darling fans for the brevity of my last chapter, but I think it sort of worked there.

James was slightly confused by the concept of cornflakes. Whenever he'd get the spoon halfway to his mouth, one or two would slither off and back into the bowl. "What is this stuff?" he asked.

"It's what I've had every morning since my folks died—cornflakes." I don't think my face meant to express condescension, but it did indeed. His face fell. "I'm sorry…just been on edge lately is all."

"What happened to your parents?" he queried.

"They were in a car crash while Pam and I were at summer camp. I was twelve. Pam was fifteen."

"I'm awfully sorry, Carmen. If there's anything I can do, let me know."

"I think I'll be fine." I took his de-cornflaked bowl from him, and drank the milk. He looked vaguely disgusted. "What?!" James hid laughter behind his hands, but his eyes told me all. "It's good like this. Nevermind, James. I've got plans for today, and you're coming along." I absentmindedly twisted a longish strand of hair around a finger.

"And what are those plans?"

"We're going to get you some proper clothes. I'm sure my sister's clothes," I took another look. Yep. Still tight enough to induce giggling. "aren't quite the style you're looking for."

With that, I led him back out into the carport, where the Pontiac lingered. "No," I said preemptively. "I don't know how this works either. Sometimes it doesn't even work. I assume you know how things go from the last time you were here."

James gave me a look that said both 'shove off' and 'you're so sweet.' In no time, we pulled up at the local Supermart. "Stick close," I said to him. "This place can get pretty weird."

And weird they did become.

I have never shopped for a guy before. However, the necessity for jeans in short order was so strong that I couldn't quite avoid the matter. I only just found out that it's measured by inseam and waistline and not by a general number like girls. Shoot. This would definitely get awkward. I decided in my quick mind to abdicate the responsibility to him. An admiral of the former EITC ought to be able to figure it out.

"Here's how it works, James," I said, pointing out the racks of jeans. "These are all what guys wear as pants here. Find a pair that fits. There'll be a number on them and you're going to need to match that number with 4 or 5 other pairs. Keep in mind that I'm low on cash and your currency's been out of use for 200 years. I'll be just an aisle or so over, looking for shirts."

"Sounds good to me," he muttered, still kind of lost.

"And by the way, find something that comes all the way down to your ankles. Nobody does that thing with the kneepants anymore." James looked a little hurt.

"I liked my kneepants…" he whimpered.

"Tough modern luck, sunshine." I walked off. Jeez louise.

Now off to more pressing matters. Where to find shirts? Now, mind you, the Murphies tee had a flattering cut to it, (droooool!) but he needed his own stuff. A green camouflage t-shirt tempted me, but before I could take it and check the size on it, a voice called out that sort of scares me to this day.

"Hey Arse-ugly Riordan! I didn't have you figured for a crossdresser!"

"Hey, Plain-Jane London! I might question you thereof as well."

She plays the mellophone and she's so-so at marching, but she's got…personality. We're not exactly _best_ friends. She's in the top ten, but just barely. And like I said, Rosa London is a bit plain. Her hair is long and brown, (only just today it feels threatening.) and her eyes are light blue. She's much shorter. Lots of folks call her Short-stack. What somehow twists her look is her eerie smile…sort of fang-ish. It's right now, directed right at me.

"If you must ask," she began, "I'm picking stuff up for my brothers."

My stomach turned with the information I held about my charge, and then a moment of weakness. I had to tell her what I was doing. I could use help taking care of him anyway…just so long as she didn't try to… _'What am I thinking! Am I getting jealous?'_ I thought. _'No. Just…concerned! Really! Focus, dammit!'_

"Well…" I spilled the goods. "I think after band, I picked up a straggler you might recognize. Look next to the clearance jeans rack."

"No. That isn't."

"Not what?"

"Jack Davenport?"

"Even better, Plain Jane. A dimensional buggerup sent me the real deal."

"James N-n-n-norrington?"

"Hell yeah!"

"I should so come home with you guys. Just let me drop off these clothes and I'll be right over." Rosa rattled off the quickest text message I had ever seen, and beamed. "I'll have some interesting news as well."

Settling on the camo tee, plus a red, blue, white, and brown one, and a grey Navy sweatshirt, I went over to check on James. He had picked up a few pairs of jeans that looked like they would fit. I took him over to grab a pair of sneakers and a pack of socks. Without much ado, except for his wonder at the goofiness of some of the selection, I grabbed him a pair of white Chuck Taylors. They seemed to suit his personality in an ironic sense.

We paid. We left. We arrived at home and I bid him change. Ever modest and proper, he darted towards the bathroom, but a very familiar voice called "¡Ocupado!"

James made a sickened face and looked at me. "This is not good. Not good at all," he muttered. "Jack Sparrow is in your apartment."

"Frick."

Just then, Rosa popped out of the bathroom, hair slightly mussed, and looked at me as if I had grown a second head. "What are you staring at? And by the way, hon, can you tell me where you keep the toughest hairbrush in the house? Witty Jack wants to take a stab at redoing his dreadlocks."

"Second drawer, right hand side. You know that, Rosa. But can ya' please vacate the lavatory as soon as humanly possible? James kinda needs it."

"'Course I can, Carmen. Jeesh! You trumpet players are pushy. Anyhow, be out in a sec!"

I turned to James again and he looked sorta scared. I knew about their going rivalry, and it seemed to still be there even in alternate realities. I began to rage with the best word I knew to describe it. "Frick frickin' fricky frick frickity frick!"

"Is he going to be out soon?" He asked.

"Let's see, are you acquainted with Jack's dreadlocks?"

"Of course. What does that have to do with it?"

"Have you ever seen Jack without his dreadlocks?"

"No…."

"Right now my buddy is trying to take them out and redo them. I suggest you go change in my room. Go on, there's nobody in there now."

A/N: ZOMG! Intense! But I mustn't keep the public waiting on another update, so I wanted to get this to you ASAP. (Also, ZOMG isn't misspelled, according to my spellcheck.) I'm going to warn you, this is a long school week for me, so I wouldn't expect any more rapid fire updates for at least 3 days. Much love, FG.

Thank you for the reviews, they're much appreciated by the way.


	4. ARGH!

Chapter 4: FRICK!

Comeupwithaplancomeupwithaplancomeupwithaplan…God dammit, Carmen, come up with a plan! Frick frick frick frick FRICK!

Then I stopped still. _You, my friend, are a future nurse. If you don't learn to take charge now, I don't think you're going to make it, _I thought.

James exited my room barefoot, wearing the red tee and a pair of stonewashed jeans. The jeans fit him well, as did the tee-shirt. I had never noticed how strong he looked till just now. I regained my steely mental processes from fluffy-land as James asked me how I looked.

"Just fine, James. Hang on a minute. I'm going to have to take care of something," I answered

I reared back and pitched out a roar. "EVERYBODY OUT OF MY BATHROOM!"

They did so—Jack looking disheveled in his modern clothes and undone dreadlocks, and Rosa holding a box with his hair-acoutrements in it. I glared at them fiercely as I began the tirade.

"As long as you three are in my house, you will abide by my rules. First and foremost, the drinking of alcohol and other illicit drug use is not allowed."

"The hell!" muttered Jack.

"Second, my sister must not know of the existence of formerly fictional characters." Here, I glared especially at Rosa.

"Third, no fighting. Fourth, any improper relations must have the consent of both parties. I think we all know that, but some of us need reminded. That about covers it. Enjoy your stay!"

"I bloody well won't," Jack grunted.

"Relax, Jack," whispered Rosa. "It's her house, and she wants to still be able to live in it after we leave."

He sulked. "I'm raiding the fridge. Feel free to join me."

James looked at me with the face of a dead man. High noon on Saturday never struck so frightening. "How much food do we have, anyway?"

"I don't know, James. I guess, not enough."

I felt his hand on my shoulder. "Hold steady, Carmen. It takes a certain amount of courage to face people like this. You've shown me you've got that. Courage…"

He got halfway through the word "worthy" then thought better of it. "Equal to an admiral."

"I'm certainly glad you think I'm worthy to command, James"

I went to the phone to order pizza. James went to the couch. The order would be here in an hour. In the meantime, I'd have to shoo Jack and Rosa out of my refrigerator.

"Guys," I called into the kitchen. "I wouldn't spoil your appetites if I were you."

Jack looked up at me, his face stuffed with a whole jar of banana peppers. Rosa had a confused look on her mug. "I have ordered the delivery of Blackwater Hills' finest cuisine!"

Yet more confusion, but delight in Jack's eyes.

I whispered, "Giovanni's Carry Out." Rosa understood.

"All right! Put down the pepper jar, Jack! We're moving up the food chain!"

_Well, that's done_, I thought. I joined James on the couch. Rosa and Jack shared the coffee table (How Mother would have shouted!) while she put his braids back in.

"So, Jack, how exactly did you get here?" asked James, a slight venom in his voice.

Jack explained. "The Fountain of Youth (ouch!) is more of a…what's the word Rosa used?"

"Infinite Improbability Drive?"

"I ended up in some sort of box, here."

"A tuba case," Rosa translated. "I was putting my horn away when I noticed Jenneman's case was making a lot of noise. I thought it was a freshman, but as you can see, it was Jack." She tied another charm in his hair. Jack winced.

"James was on the side of the field after practice was dismissed."

Another braid finished.

Jack asked, "So what's this sport you were out there in the rain practicing anyway?"

"It's called marching band," I remarked dully. "It's like an orchestra with drums and flutes and brass, with flag twirlers, except they're moving around."

"Lord, does that sound like fun," Jack groaned.

"You're not kidding," I muttered

Rosa looked at me in shock, pulling one of Jack's braids extra tight. (OUCH! The hell!) "You mean you're not actually a full-blast bandie?" (Referring to the people who eat, sleep, breathe, fornicate band.)

"That I mean, and more besides, darlin'. I'm no more a full blast bandie than Jack here is a policeman." James looked a bit disappointed in me for dampening Rosa's spirits, but I continued. "I never believed standing stick-straight and chasing after trophies determined a better musician."

More of the disappointed look. Damn. I really can't stand that. His brow was furrowed over stormy green eyes, and his lips were tight and severe.

"I'm sorry," I reluctantly eked out. "It's just that after three-plus years of this, I thought I'd feel more free, get more meaning from it, and well, I haven't. It just doesn't replace concert…" Rosa murmured assent, James's expression softened.

"The nerve of some people!" Jack shouted, filling the silence. "You'll pull me damn brain out!"

"Sorry…almost done. There!" She exclaimed, tying the bandanna around his head as he was accustomed to. The braids looked entirely different than before, being sleek and tidy. She must have used that Vündermüsse crap that she used on me. Works like a charm. The doorbell rang.

I took the pizza, announcing, "To those of you unfamiliar with the cuisine of Italy and the Mediterranean, this box may look like nothing. To us of the modern day, it is a hallowed institution." I opened it. "Behold, my friends! Pizza! Observe as Rosa and I demonstrate."

We each took a slice and began to eat. Jack caught on quickly. James sat at the side, once again disgusted with modern food.

"Come on, James," I grinned. "You must be hungry!"

James joined Jack on the floor, daintily taking the smallest slice, to be contrasted to Jack, who ambitiously took two pieces and made a "Pizza Sandwich" out of them.

"Augh! Good Lord is that hot or what!" James swore. Somebody just burned his mouth, he did…

"Well, yes, James, that's the idea," I admonished. "Wait a bit, then take another try."

He did so, and through crumb and sauce covered lips he tried to convey his thoughts about love at first taste, but his mouth was still full and covered in food, so all eloquence was lost. I took a paper towel and wiped his face clean. His eyes spoke gratitude. Part of me hoped that he wouldn't get zits or something from it. From the kitchen, I brought a bottle of pop. The dimensional refugees looked at me eagerly.

"Rum?" asked Jack.

"Wine?" queried James.

"No, my dears, but it is still the nectar of the gods," Rosa answered. We passed the bottle. Jack, apparently lacking in taste buds, swilled a giant gulp in one fell swoop. James was frightened by the bubbles and spat it out.

"Bugger! That stuff is madness!" he blurted.

In no time the soda was gone, and it was already late afternoon, the warm glow of the sun coming through the kitchen window as it set. The empty bottle and pizza box sat in the middle of the living room betwixt four sated lunatics of different respects—a sociopath, an alcoholic, a passive aggressive, and a case of clinical depression. I took the box into the kitchen, not eager to attract the flies of early September. Motioning to Rosa to get the soda bottle, I wondered what was keeping her. I was already arguing with the garbage can, and she was still in the living room. She twirled the bottle in her hand, rather in a manner Jack would be proud of.

"I have a cunning plan, Carmen," she said, her fangish smile creeping out to only me.

Part of me filled with excitement, the other part with dread. In the charge of the sociopath was not one of my favorite places to be.


	5. So Cunning Ya Could Brush Yer Teeth Wit

Chapter 5: So Cunning You Could Brush Your Teeth With It, and Other Stories.

But first an author's note. In reply to FluteAngel21, it is indeed unlike witty Jack to consider hygiene. However, one notes that Jack is also a fan of decadence and vanity, which, technically, a rebraiding of one's dreadlocks could be construed as. After all, after a few years, one's dreads can definitely get worn out.

On with the show.

Rosa called me closer. I don't like her cunning plans, especially when they involve me or people I love. Did I say people I love? I mean…transdimensional refugees.

"Okay," she whispers. "These people are essentially ghosts. Norry's technically dead, and Jack's abuse of the Fountain of Youth probably cursed him something good. So, what's the point in not messing around with them a little bit?" Again with the fang-smile.

"What are you suggesting, Plain-Jane?" I rasped, probably guessing correctly the answer in mind.

"I suggest breaking…" her voice lowered, "the fourth rule."

Yep. Called it. "So what sordid game do you have in mind? Seven minutes? Spin the bottle? A variation on key parties? You're a band-bus girlie, you must be cooking something up in your twisted little head."

"It's like you don't know me at all, accusing me of such doings on that bus. But you're right. Not about the bus. About the sordid planning. I do indeed have a twisted plan. It is, indeed, a variation of the standard key party. What kind of sleeping arrangements do we have here, anyway?"

"We've got Pam's room, my room, and the living room. Now, out with it."

"I've stolen a charm from Jack's bandanna, and you can get a coin from Norry. I'll put them in a coffee mug and on top of the fridge, and then you'll draw one out. You share the room with the owner of the coin."

"Sordid."

"Cunning!"

"I'll do it, but whatever happens is on you."

I asked James for the coin, which he readily provided, sacked out on the couch. It was a tarnished doubloon, drawn from a silk purse that he still kept on him. With that in hand, I came to the kitchen to fill the mug with that coin, hoping to feel its foreign grooves on my fingers when I drew it out again. We decided not to draw for a while, the night being still young. What to do, though?

"How about a sing-along?" Rosa suggested. James and I winced. Oh well. Their funeral.

"What song will I be torturing people with this evening?" I mocked.

"Come on, Carmencita, your voice isn't as bad as, say, some choir members and all of the drumline."

"That really inspires me with confidence. What song?"

" How Can I Live Without You."

"Hang on," James interjected. "I don't know that one!"

"You'll catch on," I giggled.

"Fine then…" He seemed uneasy with the idea.

"Shall we begin?" Rosa announced. "You can still come and give me coffee in the mornin'," we sang. Jack joined in. "You can still come and give me a chicken fried steak." James was quite amused with the silly song. "You can live your life with whomever you please to as long as someone takes good care of me. You know I don't mind." James chimed in. "How can I live without you, if it means I've got to get a job? How can I live without you, if it means I've got to get a job?"

We were glowing. The song continued. It was as if we were drunk, and I don't know if we were or not. It was, after all, Rosa who poured the next round of drinks, and I probably can't trust her in my kitchen. So perhaps I had been a little inebriated by the time the sky was lavender and navy blue through the window to the west of us. So perhaps I was a little into my tumbler when a coin tumbled into my lap. I didn't recognize it. Crap. Not good. That is_ not_ James's doubloon. Oh well. She wanted Jack's coin and I don't expect Rosa to go through with a game that's not going her way.

"Gentlemen, as you are all aware, (hic!) the sleeping arrangements are quite (hic!) limited. Now, Jack, you'll notice you're missing a coin from your newly done hairstyle."

"Thought it felt odd…" he muttered.

"James, Carmen borrowed a coin from you. This is where they both come into play. I simply won't (hic) have the two of you sleeping in a room together. The likelihood (here she sort of stumbled.) that one of you will kill the other in their sleep is much too high (hic) for my liking. So. James and Jack, go find your coins. You will be spending the night with the owner of said coinage."

Okay. Really. Not good. I don't think I won that round of roulette. Oh well. I'm sure there's an exit provision somewhere.

No?

I'll have to make one.

"How about I make this more interesting. The living room is a sort of neutral territory. So. People who sleep in the living room, on account of the inability to stomach…a night with their roomie, have to clean the house tomorrow. Got that?"

Rosa's fang-sneer twisted into something like disgust. "Got that times twenty."

Jack leered at me. Or maybe it was a smile. His teeth sort of creeped me out. "Well then. It seems I will be enjoying the company of another person of an independent nature. We could talk of philosophy, or if you prefer we could just…" From there it was a lot of 'blah blah blah.'

We would be sleeping in my room. The one with the brick walls, the floor mattress, miniature window, and beaucoup blankets and pillows. The one with the Jack Sparrow velour pillow. Crap. That would elicit some incredible awkwardness.

He hadn't seen it when I got there. He was already lying on my bed, arms behind his head. Rather dashingly, I admit. This is not boding well for Madame Self-Control. The first thing I did was sit down on my bed. The second thing I did is quite unclear, given that it was a bit of a tie between getting kissed roughly, being attacked indecently, and slugging a dimensional refugee in the jaw.

"Now let's get one thing straight, Captain Sparrow, if there's one thing I want you to know, it's that the rules still apply here and you don't have permission to do that. I was hoping you were going to let me sleep in peace."

"Then perhaps," he said aggressively, "you can explain to me this strange embroidered pillow. That's a picture of me, isn't it? I found it on your bed, which means that you're sleeping with it. Explain that!"

Crap. Crap Fricky McCrap. "Got it from a friend."

"People who get awkward things from friends toss them out later if they don't like them. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you kinda like the velour effigy. Ergo, me."

"Fine. I do."

"Well, then, we are in agreement, Carmen. Shall we commence to breaking ground rules or what?"

"Hello! Independent personality, remember?" Tonight sucks. It really does. I should feed Rosa's mellophone to the wood chipper when I get back to school.

"If you're so damn independent, why don't you go sleep in the living room, on your own?"

"Yeah! Why not?!"

Mission accomplished. I took the afghan and the pillow from last night, and made my place on the sofa. Beat that, Rosa.


	6. Because The World Is Round

Chapter 6: Because The World Is Round

A/N: You know, I don't think that last chapter sounded at all right, not like me at all. I think that the longer one harps on a chapter and doesn't just sit and write at it, the weirder it gets. You ever get chapters like that—you want so much to further the plot to get to the ones you really want to write that there's this one chapter that sounds all goofy?

Oh well. They were drunk. That's why they sounded goofy. By the way, thanks to the band, Cracker, for the lyrics in Chapter 5, and thanks to the Beatles for "Because" and to the Decemberists again for "Sons and Daughters" in this chapter. Much love to all Beatles, living and deceased.

Beneath the silver and black afghan, my head resting on that clover-patterned pillow, my body resting on the natty old pothead-tested couch, I couldn't quite sleep. Saturday nights are for carousing and acting stupid. I almost wished I would've given in to Jack's wiles and let him attack me, but it's not in my nature to give in to drunken fool men without my sober mind's permission. A temple-squashing headache set in. _Damn_, I thought. What was it that Rosa stumbled on in the liquor cabinet? I wasn't paying attention. It's all my fault. Well, mostly. I think I began to sing myself to sleep…

"Because the world is round it turns me on…because the world is round it turns me on…Ahhhhhh! Because the wind is high, it blows my mind. Because the wind is high…Ahhhhh, love is old love is new. Love is old, love is you." That's not just my voice. It's a familiar voice, now a very familiar voice, but it's not mine. "James!" I murmured, happy for his company. "What are you doing here? What about cleaning the house tomorrow?"

"I heard you leave Jack and I was worried for you."

"But what about Rosa?"

"I have to admit she was quite bored with me. I just don't hold the dashing pizzazz that a flashy pirate captain has." How bitter he sounded!

"Jack thought very much the same of me. It's a good thing you've got all the flash I need," I mumbled.

He sat by my ankles. "I'm glad you think so." His eyes brightened. "I was wondering if you might sing another song. I've grown rather fond of your voice…"

"I'll bet you grew fond of it when Jack and Rosa started singing!" I glanced back to the shadows, one Jack Sparrow shadow moving across the hall to Pamina's room. Of course. _Suit yourself,_ I thought. "What song would you like to hear?"

"Do you know any more like the one you sang to me last night?"

"As a matter of fact, I know more songs by that writer. This one I think is really beautiful." I sat up against the armrest, mock-preparing and at the same time preparing properly for singing. "When we arrive, sons and daughters, we'll make our homes on the water. We'll build our walls of aluminum, we'll fill our mouths with cinnamon, now. These currents pull us cross the water, steady your boats, arms to shoulder. Till tides will pull, hold the guns, making this cold harbor our home. Take up your arms, sons and daughters, we will arise from the bunkers by land, by sea, by dirigible, we'll leave our tracks untraceable now." I continued in this way. Slowly, throatily, lovingly almost. Lovingly, yes, I loved him. He was all at once, charge and fearless protector. In the morning I would tell Pamina, maybe. I couldn't bear to see him off to life in this dimension without me. I'd keep him here forever if I could. He had moved to rest his head on my chest, listening to me sing up close while I absently stroked his hair.

"I don't ever want to go home. Of course I don't. That's silly. In my reality I'm dead. But I don't want to leave you," he sighed.

"Ever think of just settling down here? Wife, kids, nice posh house in the country?" I asked of him.

"Admittedly, not till recently. Mind you, this place didn't exist in my mind two days ago, but it was only recently that I realized I could get used to life here. Maybe...as you described it."

"This world is pretty scary sometimes, but it's beautiful all the same. I'd share it all with you if I could. You'd need a job sometime, but you could join the Navy again as a drill instructor or something."

"You talk of the future, you beautify the present, and you know nearly all of my past…Carmen, you're everything."

"Such fancy words, James. Why not forego convention for a while." I lifted his face up to mine and kissed him gently, and he answered with more force. I noted his hands straying to my waist, hugging me close.

We didn't break the fourth rule. Both parties had given permission. I'm just classy enough to leave out the details. Too bad for you. I know you wanted to know. Just let me say that it was definitely improper relations.

I woke up Sunday morning with a worse migraine and bad hair, but very satisfied, very churlish thoughts (how's that for your ACT vocab?) as I lay there under the blanket, with James next to me. How good life is.

How good life can be, I should say. It came to pass that Jack stumbled down the hall into the bathroom, promptly puking his guts out. I slipped my clothes on.

"Jack? All right in there?" I called.

"Not reall—BLORPFH! (ptooey.) Where's Rosa?"

"I don't know. Wait a minute, what time is it?"

"Half past a hangover, quarter to ten."

Jaysus! Have I slept that long? "Never mind, Jack. She's at church. She'll be back and then she'll take you home."

"Good thing, too. Been thinking of busting out of this dump."

"Beg pardon?"

"Not your house. This reality. Do you see me living in a place where washing is expected and drunken carousing is much frowned upon?"

"Good point, Jack. I'll get you some fresh clothes and leave you to your business."

"You're not so rude as you were last night, darling."

"And you're not half as drunk or over-amorous."

"Did you really think that of me or was your brain doing the thinking again. I've always said brains get in the way of everything."

"I wouldn't say it was your brain…"

"Are the two of you okay?" James asked.

"Just fine," we said in unison.

Not just fine.

The door burst open.

My sister shouldn't do that. "Good morning Papagena!" I crowed.

"For the love of mother and child, it's not Papagena!" she growled. And then she stood still. Staring at the pothead-tested couch.

A/N: Not too explicit for you, I hope. I love these scary intense scenes. As the story nears its epilogue, I'd like to thank my frequent reviewers and any future ones. We've got about 2 or 3 chapters to go, and I'd encourage you to read the stories I write in the future, although they won't all be about foxy Norrington in a Murphys tee.


	7. The Magic Flute References Strike Again

Chapter 7: Ein Mädchen oder Weibchen

A/N: The chapter title is in reference to Magic Flute, one of Mozart's opera, and is the title of my favorite character's aria. I totally recommend it. Seeing it, hearing it…

Yeah. I'm in love with Papageno the Bird Catcher. Anyhoo, it means "A girl or a woman."

"You slept with him, Carmen," Pamina said flatly.

"How'd you figure that out?" I retorted.

"Oh, just the fact that he's not all that dressed and he's grinning inanely to himself."

James interjected. "It was on both of our terms, if that's what you're suggesting."

"Not at all, Admiral."

"You know who he is?" I asked.

"Naturally. The voice, the eyes, and the fact that if it weren't for me, he wouldn't have been on the side of that marching field. I saw him while I was working the bar, and since he was in no state to drive, I walked him to BHS and told him to wait for you. I probably should have figured something like this would have happened."

"Pamina, wait. You know you're never home. You never see me. You don't even know me. What does it matter to you what I do?"

"It would have mattered to Mother and Father, you know it!" she countered.

"But be serious, Pam. I've found a man that loves me for me. I may not have saved his life but I've taken care of him. He could be the answer to our problems—a real home and maybe a real family."

"I fail to see how a fictional man can make your life whole."

"I've seen him, you see him; I've made quite sure in more ways than one that he's real. Can't you just accept that I've found something to make me happy?"

"It would be a worthless thing to argue otherwise," she conceded. "Don't get pregnant, okay?"

James and I beamed.

"And no getting married till Miss Carmen Riordan graduates, got it, Admiral?"

James agreed.

Somehow something was missing. "Where's Jack?" I asked. Not good. A note in scrawly kindergarten handwriting was stuck to the bathroom door. "Gone to find Rosa. Maybe be back soon."

Fine then.

We told Pamina the whole story. Of course we did. She's my sister. In the kitchen, a pan of frittata was simmering peacefully.

"So I see you actually have more than one recipe," James noted kindly.

"Cooking is my best kept secret. If I advertise my cooking knowledge, next thing I know, I'm up to my nose in young boys with insatiable appetites."

"I see. So your deep singing and trumpet playing have not attracted such admiring hordes?"

"Just one," I said, lightly slapping him. Cheeky git. Pamina served the frittata with a motherly panache.

"Dig in, you two. Sorry about the lack of spice. Somebody made off with all the banana peppers."

James had to fight less with it. Most of it actually made it into his mouth. I'm so proud of him, although I feel a little guilty, taking him out of his very structured element. But then again, back in his "element," he was dead. High noon Sunday. Where's Rosa and where's Jack?

"We need to go find those two." I stated. "St. Isabel's would be a good place to start."

We all piled into the Pontiac, gunning for the other side of town, where St. Isabel's spires poked the sky in a somewhat jagged and unwieldy manner.

Indeed it was a good place to look, for there was a note pinned to the vestibule bulletin board. The outside read: To Pam, James, and Carmie, with love from Jack and Rosa.

Hastily ripping the note from the corkboard, I read it aloud with Pam reading over my shoulder and James gazing inside, towards the altar. Golly only knows what was on his mind.

Dear All:

Jack was the one who wanted to write this note, but I have better handwriting. Believe me, gone without a trace is something I was more hoping for. However. Jack touched the holy water, and as a negation of the Fountain of Youth, his fingers disappeared. Don't ask me how I figured that out. I don't know, myself. Anyhow, he called me over after Mass and gave me this little vial. He said that it was from the fountain and if I wanted to come with him, I'd have to drink it. Poison? Strangely reminiscent of Kool-Aid? No, baby. I decided to go with him to his reality. So don't be sad that I'm gone. I'm off to sail the seas with Captain Jack Sparrow. Hot damn!

Much love and hugs to all especially Mum, Dad, and the Brothers, and all of you.

Rosa and Jack

So that's the end of that. I wasn't sad at all to see her go. She's much better suited for a ship's deck than for Blackwater Hills.

James was still staring at the altar. "What are you thinking?" I asked, leaning on his arm.

"Nothing…just about what this summer will be like. I've never seen summer on the mainland."

"It's beautiful, but scorchin' hot. It'd make your cute little ponytail curl in such a funny way."

"I think I could live with that."

A/N: HALP! I need to figure out what to do on Monday with these two. No, I won't occupy it with smutty ramblings! But please. How can I mess with these two for one more day until the epilogue, and there will be an epilogue the likes of none! (Patterned slightly after a dream I had once.)


	8. Should I Try To Do Some More?

Chapter 8: 25 or 6 to 4

A/N: National Novel Writer's Month officially claims a novel to be 10,000 words. It seems quite strange and wild to me that I've nearly met that mark at what appears to be 8,597. Anyhow, without further ado, James, Pamina, and Carmen spend one last day of their Labor Day weekend together, before I launch into the epilogue, making it a nice 9 chapter story.

I lay on my bed, next to James, feeling low to the ground as I followed the dots on the ceiling with my eyes. He had his arm around my shoulder and we were just thinking out loud to each other. It was a bit of an exercise for James, who kept frequently silent when he was unsure of his opinion.

"What was it that led you to me?" I asked him.

He stared hard at the ceiling. He was searching for an answer.

"I mean," I continued, "Rosa was prettier, and Pamina more stable than I. Why me out of everyone in this dimension?"

Pensive, pensive, he was so pensive looking. I admired the smooth chiseled face poking straight into the air. "I suppose it was your compassion and bravery that won me over, Carmen."

"Pish," I said, thinking of my harsh exterior that ate the faint of heart for breakfast. "I find that difficult to believe."

"I'm not kidding with you. I never felt so safe as when you sang that lullaby to me, you holding me in your arms, and for the while after that when you kept watch over me."

"You were awake?"

"Of course. I couldn't sleep after that nightmare, so I lay there and watched you."

"What of bravery then? I've not got that for sure."

"You've fought off pirates with nothing but swift words. It takes bravery not to solve everything at the edge of a sword. I've made that mistake all too often."

"You sound as if you regret what happened in the Caribbean."

"Parts of it maybe. The loss of my career certainly. I'm not sure that I'm all there when I've not something to work hard at, like pirate chasing or deck swabbing or whatever."

"So, you're not all here now?"

"Sadly...no. I'd love to feel as lucid as I do at the helm of a ship, when I'm just loafing around here, but I'm afraid I can't."

"Do you have any ideas as to what you'd set your mind to here? In a landlocked state with no pirates?"

"I really don't know. Someday I'd like to be a musician, but I'm afraid those years are long past. Do you have any ideas?"

"I don't know. Pam's considering opening a restaurant near campus. We could always work there."

He sighed meditatively and kissed me on the cheek. "Worth a try," he said.

Pam knocked on the door and asked if she could come in. I answered in the affirmative. She brought more soda. I sipped mine gently, and Pam took hers in great gasping gulps. James, still wary from his last experience, just stared at it.

"Here's how it works, hon," Pam instructed. "Take a little bit in and let the bubbles die out, then swallow. Works nigh on every time." (Get your head out of the gutter. What are you, 8?)

James wore a bitter grimace as he launched himself once again at his greatest challenge here. To his surprise, it worked; his self-satisfied smirk lighting up his eyes.

"Good," he remarked. "A bit like rum, a bit like wine."

"Goes good with both!" Pam joked. I looked at her with a foolish grin. We hadn't been this way together since Mum and Dad died. "Anyhow, it's 10 and I need to be at Entrepreneurship early to ask the Doc something."

"Good luck, Mina."

We were alone again. In other stories told about this particular gent, or men of his style, we would have found more unsuitable manners of entertainment. However, I introduced him to my music collection. The jambox whirred to my favorite CD, Picaresque. "Eli the Barrow Boy" filled the room. He listened intently, his eyes sweet and stormy.

"Would I could afford to buy my love a fine gown, made from gold and silk Arabian thread, but I am dead and gone, and lying in a pine grove, but still I push my barrow all the day." I lay back across the bed.

"A haunting song," he said to himself as it ended.

"Love after death is a popular theme, I guess. I quite like haunting songs in that fashion."

"I've died before. It doesn't erase so much as you might think," he chuckled, flopping down on the bed next to me.

"Oh really? What does it do?"

"Hmm. It sort of hurts, and then the hurt goes to a tickle. After I fell in the water, it just felt like living." He sighed.

"That'd be the 5th dimension randomizing. It's the one in charge of death versus not-death."

"How do you know so much?" he asked in wonder.

"School's a big thing now. Compulsory for 13 years. College is essentially expected."

"No way. You're at the beginning of the 13th year then?"

"Yes." Again with the mumbling. I thought I was past this.

"The Golden Age" whirled through the CD changer. "Big Dipper" thrummed in a loose, dancing sort of groove.

"Would you like to dance?" I mumbled.

He sat up, hair shimmering behind him. He had left it down today. "But of course!"

He held my hand gently as we kicked pillows and things out of the way. My free hand clung to the thin camouflage shirt. Round and round we went, as time passed and he held me close. One thing led to another again, and I'm still too modest to mention it.

I shifted, bleary-eyed and tired, to drape my head over the edge of the bed, deciphering the hands of the clock upside down.

"What time is it?" James groaned.

"Twenty-five or six to four," I replied, for 'twas the truth. Early afternoon had come quickly. I put the covers back over my head and slept. The next day would definitely be a shock to me, going from relations with fictional characters back to the dull world of higher algebra and chemistry. James sat there, wide awake. Time would go slowly for him while he waited for me. Part of me knew that as I slipped into the subconscious.

I suppose an "I love you" slipped out as my sleepy mind meandered into the unknown.


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue: Another Sky

A/N: And now the slushy, fluffy love scene you've all been waiting for. Being a natural robot, it's not easy for me to write these, but we've got to think about bums on seats.

Lorelei pulled at my leg. "Mama, come and see what I made with Aunt Pammy!"

My other leg was also occupied with her brother, John, almost the same age. They were both adopted.

"Can I see in just a minute? We've still got customers," I pleaded. It was exam week and "Pamina's Pizza" was jampacked with stressed and hungry college students. Come to think of it, it's only a couple weeks before James's and my 9th anniversary. Sometimes I wonder what happened to Rosa and Jack. I don't even know if they're alive.

James blew a kiss from the dining room, a gigantic platter of pizza braced on his still-supple shoulder. It's the little things like this that make me think of our wedding…all those years ago.

Time passes as it has the nature of doing. It was time for James's music lesson. I decided to teach him trumpet, not being the most difficult of instruments and being the only one I know sufficiently enough to teach it. He gets frustrated easily, I admit. I found him sitting at the bar, with the trumpet on the table. His head was in his hands.

"I don't want to practice today, you know. I'm no good at it."

"You are plenty good. Anyway," I attempted, using what could have been a coy voice had I not croaked with the fatigue of running a business. "I've decided to try a new approach."

James looked intrigued. I certainly didn't know what I was doing, and this was only a guess. The ancient folklore of band didn't steer wrong in these respects.

"Ancient musician lore claims that a good trumpet embouchre (spuck felling.) means a good kiss." I slid up on the barstool next to him, idly twirling a lock of hair on my finger. The red leather of the barstool felt gentle on my legs. The other hand snaked sleepily down his back. The emptiness of the room was solemn, almost holy as I whispered my bait. "The converse is also true." Hook, line, and sinker. I didn't need much grace, so good thing I had none. My free hand took his shoulder, and spun him towards me, and he took me into a gentle embrace. "Shall we begin the lesson, then?" My answer came as a soft kiss, my lips parting, his hands reaching for my still-short hair as mine gripped round the back of his neck. I untied his ponytail. Just for fun. His tongue gently moved into my mouth—everything about him was gentle. _That would have to end_, I thought jokingly to myself. All of a sudden, I moved fiercely on him, his face, his throat, anything, everything! James reciprocated with such force, in his hands, in his lips, that I leaned back. His hands moved up and down the thin fabric of my cheap cotton shirt, and his kisses moved down my throat.

He paused at my collarbone to say, "A musician, a nurse, a cook, AND a teacher. Carmen Norrington, you are everything."

I allowed him to tug at the hem of my shirt, pull it loose of the holdings in my apron, and with an outstretched arm cast things tastefully dark. I hope Pamina put the kids to bed.

While you're waiting for the lights to come back on, you can entertain yourselves with the pictures on the walls in the lobby.

The first picture is one in black and white, from a photo booth at the mall. It's Rosa and me in that picture. I never knew how much I'd miss her till she left. The picture is from our middle school years—that you can tell by her geek-glasses and my braces and awkward slouch. Up higher is a photograph of my family, before Mum and Dad died. Mum's hair is a brassy gold with green eyes. She wears a black turtleneck and what now seems to be the mournful leer of people from the world beyond. Dad is in a polo shirt, his short, black hair standing out against the faux seascape. A thin mustache above his grin was always his trademark. His eyes were hazel. Pamina, a gangly tween, grinned brightly, tin whistle in hand. I was as yet a child, in a sailor suit-esque dress and a stormy pout. Not much had changed since then. To the right of that is a picture of James. Nobly, proudly, he looks off to the sun, sword in hand. I haven't yet told him that I got it off the internet. Still, his eyes gleam green and he looks smart and dashing in his navy brocade. I wonder where that jacket is now? I'm sure we've still got it. But anyhow. Farther along, near the counter, one last picture hangs in an ornate frame, of a short and short-haired bride with a veil attached to haircombs hiding her face. She stands in a garden where honeysuckle blooms with merry abandon. Next to her is a groom whose face you'll recognize from the previous picture. The powdered wig is gone, as are the hat and old-school getup. His hair is braided and snakes over one shoulder, coming to rest on the lapel of his suit. One hand hangs by his side; the other is around the bride's waist, resting on a lace design of a crane. If you're especially clever like I suspect you are, you know already it's a picture of our wedding. On warm spring days I remember it so clearly—in a formal garden in June. Not many remark that Ohio looks a bit like the Mediterranean for this time of the year, but I think it's so, and that day was a day that would make even the most hardened Sicilian homesick.

James and I are gone up to bed now, but the lights are still off. Perhaps it's time to go home. I'd be quick, though. There's a storm on the horizon and you never know who'll be blown into town.

The End (at the moment.)

Author's Note: I'd like to thank all the bands who contributed (unknowingly) lyrics to this work, as well as my frequent readers and reviewers, JazzTrumpet, SpacePotato, Flute-Angel21, and MrsDeppObsessorGoddess. There may be others, and thank you all as well. I'd like to thank my family and teachers for suffering my inattentiveness while I hack away at the mangy plotbunnies, and I'll thank you all to keep a weather eye on the horizon, because Falcon K. Green doesn't work her arse off for something she doesn't love to do. ('cept math. Which is what I'm also doing right now. Mwar!) Also, thank you Disney for being so sweet as to lend me your gorgeous characters, especially James and Jack.


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